


one who awaits you

by rime



Category: Persona 5
Genre: HxH AU, M/M, goropika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25640617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rime/pseuds/rime
Summary: Akechi briefly wonders if this man is a Hunter. They’d said all the proctors were, but — it’s hard to imagine a Hunter drinking from a juice box."Akechi-kun, do you know about Nen?"HxH AU. A reimagining of the Yorknew City arc with Akechi as Kurapika and the Phantom Troupe as the Phantom Thieves.(Should be readable if you're not familiar with HxH -- background info in the opening notes.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 32
Kudos: 116





	one who awaits you

**Author's Note:**

> Quick summary of the Yorknew City arc / background HxH info, if you're not familiar with HxH:  
> 
> 
>   * Kurapika's the sole survivor of a clan murdered by the Phantom Troupe (a band of criminal thieves) for their priceless Scarlet Eyes (eyes that turn scarlet when they're mad). Kurapika is very determined to kill the Phantom Troupe and their leader Chrollo as a result. 
>   * Hunters are highly skilled humans who have passed the Hunter Exam and earned a license that puts them above the law -- they can go anywhere and do anything! They almost always have Nen, aka magic powers specific to them. Kurapika conjures chains. Chrollo steals abilities (yeah he's OP). 
> 


The Hunter Exam is never held in the same place twice. This year's Exam is being held in a doctor’s private practice, in a pediatrics clinic three train stops outside Zaban. _Dr Takuto Maruki,_ announces the shoddily-taped sign on the drab green door. Cloud and rainbow cutouts are glued cheerfully to its corners.

Akechi fingers his pocket Mauser for reassurance. He'd thought his sources reliable, but this door is so unassuming he's starting to have doubts. Luckily the sounds behind don’t sound like counseling. Instead there is all-encompassing murmuring, like what you might hear in the crowded throng of a subway station — as well as a palpable sense of unease.

On the other side lies a cavernous expanse crowded with applicants. The atmosphere is lethal. A man with a juice box ushers him through the queue, handing him a round, flat token with _#610_ scrawled on it. 

Akechi briefly wonders if this man is a Hunter. They’d said all the proctors were, but — it’s hard to imagine a Hunter drinking from a juice box.

“Don’t lose it!” says juice box man, encouragingly. “They won’t replace it if you do.” 

That’s fine: anyone stupid enough to lose their badge before the exam begins deserves to fail. Akechi thanks the proctor and absconds to an unobtrusive corner as quickly as possible, the better to size up the competition. 

It’s not very impressive. The Zaban SIU deals with scarier criminals routinely. 

As the minutes crawl on, though, a few odd presences tickle his awareness. Like the girl in the red taffy outfit, or the blonde boy slouched on his bat, or the boy off to the corner, engrossed in his sketch. 

Individually, they're eyesores. What bothers him is the suspicion that there is a together. It’s a visceral, baseless thought, but Akechi rarely doubts his intuitions. He pays attention while pretending not to. If they know each other, they ought to slip up at some point: talk, or exchange glances, or barely nod in passing. 

But none of that happens, and Akechi openly glares at them as the minutes drag on, as if by frowning powerfully enough he might render their connection into thread. 

"You're staring at my friends,” says a voice suddenly. 

Akechi's attention retrains on the speaker like a laser.

Looks about the same age as Akechi. He's in jeans and a formless grey hoodie, pulled far enough over his eyes that it’s hard to see his glasses, or hair. Unremarkable-looking.

Had he said _friends?_

The boy flashes a feline, disconcerting grin at him, as if hearing his thoughts. Now he’s tossing Akechi a disc. 

At the height of its trajectory it flashes and he makes out the number on it: #610.

"Hey," the boy says, when he sees what Akechi's face is doing. "Take it easy."

"Take it easy?" Akechi hisses. "After — that?" He makes a wild gesture at nothing at all, just to express himself.

"Yeah," the boy says. "You look like you want to kill me. And I didn't take your pistol, so you really could."

"You took my badge, but not my pistol?" Akechi says in disbelief. He feels his pockets as surreptitiously as possible. Christ, he's telling the truth. 

Out of _pity?_ Does he think he won't shoot?

"I figured you wouldn't shoot," the boy says, like Akechi's thoughts are written on his fucking face. "At least, not here. You'd draw too much attention to yourself. Also, I thought it'd make you _really_ mad." 

"What the hell do you want," Akechi snarls. 

The boy's countenance changes. If he was being fucked with before, now he's being assessed.

Akechi wonders, briefly, what his name is. 

"You have so much potential," the boy says. "Don't take the Exam this year. Come back next year. I promise that's better for both of us. But you won't listen, right?" 

He speaks very earnestly. Someone else might have been convinced. Akechi hisses something that can’t be repeated in polite company.

"Right," says the boy. Under the reflective surface of his glasses, his expression is unreadable. "Then I'll see you around. Shake on it."

He stretches out a hand in invitation, and Akechi takes it.

It's his second mistake in as many minutes. When he comes to three days later, he's in Maruki's infirmary, the Hunter Exam is over, and there's an enraged, unpleasant ringing in his ears.

-

"Akechi-kun, do you know about Nen?"

Akechi can’t decide if he’s the luckiest or unluckiest person in the world. In the column for lucky, juicebox proctor had turned out to be Maruki himself, who’d taken in an unconscious Akechi out of — kindness? concern? — and monitored his vitals for the last seventy-two hours. And now he’s dangling a strange new syllable before him. _Nen._

“No,” Akechi says flatly. “What is that?”

“Oh, I’ve already said more than I should,” says Maruki. He’s thoughtfully chewing the straw of his empty juice-box. “I… thought it might be related to your current predicament.”

In the column for unlucky: _current predicament._ Failing the exam before it started. 

Akechi knows exactly what its cause is. That handshake from that boy. But what had it been, exactly? How could a handshake knock you out for days? 

_Nen._ The way Maruki had said it, as if divulging the first taste of a great mystery…

“Tell me the rest,” Akechi says. “It sounds important.”

Maruki smiles at him. “You seem well enough to be discharged, Akechi-kun.”

Outside Maruki’s practice, Akechi discovers his wallet is several thousand jenny lighter than he remembers. Inside, there’s a note. _sorry!_ it says, in birdlike scrawl, and then something else Akechi can’t really read — _mghen? muhe?_ A phone number's attached. Akechi's eyebrows practically lift off his face. 

It's not the boy's number, though, but the number of a record store in a town a day’s walk from Zaban. The rail attendant is so impressed by Akechi’s destination she gives him the ticket for free. Three hours later the train spits him into a dismally kept station. It’s sundown and the shops are closing, but he finds the record store soon enough, three blocks and a left past the station. A calendar year later, it’ll feel like home. 

-

  
  
The store is run by a man named Muhen, a former Hunter who retired fifteen years ago to sell records and live an ordinary life. He is taciturn to the point of comedy. When instructing Akechi, though, he talks plenty. 

"Stop broadcasting your aura to the entire street," he says, like Akechi knows what that means.

"I don't know what that means," Akechi says.

Muhen’s face contorts with bafflement when he realizes Akechi isn't joking. That evening, he explains. It’s a good explanation, and it seeps into Akechi's mind comfortably, accentuated by the crackling warmth of the fireplace, the occasional pizzicato plucks of Muhen’s cello. Nen is aura is power. The Hunter Association's secret. Any Hunter worth their salt masters it — generally after the exam, but there are exceptions. With Nen under your belt, the exam’s a cinch.

"You're overflowing with it," Muhen says, matter-of-factly. "Normally people train for that. Did something happen to you?"

Awakening Nen can take months, even years. But one can be shocked into it, with a little help. Akechi recalls the handshake, the boy who had vanished and left his floating Cheshire grin behind. Happen? Maybe.

The next day they go out to the forest and find a broad maple leaf with pleasantly ridged edges. Muhen places it in a large glass bowl and has Akechi reach out his hand. 

There were types of Nen, apparently. Enhancers were strong, Transmuters fickle. Emitters — well, they emitted. And then a couple other types, none of which Akechi had paid mind to, because he fully intended on being an Enhancer. An Enhancer could kill the most easily.

But the water doesn't splash out of the bowl, which is the effect Enhancers' auras have. More generally, nothing happens. Twenty minutes later even Muhen’s starting to get anxious. Akechi triple-checks the leaf. It doesn’t budge.

“Perhaps you could think of a memory,” Muhen suggests. “Something you feel strongly about. Why do you want to be a Hunter?”

-

Akechi’s mother is murdered a day after his eighth birthday. It makes the headlines for all of two news cycles. Day 1: _Area Woman Murdered, Eyes Gouged._ Day 2: _No Leads in Prostitute’s Murder._

The eyes are the lead, the police too stupid to realize. But what could an eight-year-old say? _I saw her eyes glow when she was angry or sad. She wore contacts so nobody knew._

It would sound insane from all but the most authoritative source. 

He works, for years, to become that source. His grades are stellar, he’s good with adults, he wins awards. It sort of works. Sophomore year he lands a prestigious internship at Zaban's SIU under a woman named Niijima, who assigns him enough paperwork to fell a man. 

He clips through it with vengeful speed. Niijima is, reluctantly, impressed. By week eight Akechi is accompanying her to the courtroom, watching her prosecute criminals with a ferocity he intuitively understands is personal. 

When he's booted out of his sixth foster home she has him designed a ward of the state and moves him into her apartment, a spartan one-bedroom with a sleeper couch. She isn’t there much. Most nights she stays late at the office, working on a case she can’t tell Akechi about. It finally spills on Christmas Eve, over a bottle of cheap rosé that had emboldened Akechi enough to tell her his maudlin life story. Sae hiccups tearfully, twice, and blurts: “Isn’t that one of the Phantom Thieves killings?” 

“The what?” Akechi says.

“Oh, shit,” says Sae. “Hey, should we order more sushi?”

They order more sushi. Later that night he tiptoes into her room and downloads her laptop data onto a tiny thumb-drive, scouring it until dawn. 

This is the big case Sae’s been working on. Akechi has always understood the Thieves to be an urban legend. According to the database, though, they're a real international criminal ring responsible for... virtually everything. The Parasta murders, the disappearances in East Gorteau, the serial killings in Zaban five years ago — ah. 

But the Thieves are never going to stand trial, and even if they were, this evidence is much too circumstantial to convict. 

How irritating. If it were Akechi, he’d just forge some. 

It’s probably Sae’s unwillingness to do that that brings her down. Two weeks later she’s off the case, her investigation transferred to someone more comfortable with fabrication. Not long after she’s framed for misconduct and stripped of her position entirely, as well as her guardianship of him. It changes her, makes her weathered. “I’m going to become a Hunter,” she says. “You should, too.” 

  
  
-

  
  
The water never does splash out of the bowl. Instead it turns — filmy? — and the leaf explodes, blazing horribly for a good ten seconds before folding in on itself and shrivelling into dust.

"A Conjurer, and a Specialist," Muhen says. He turns over the words slowly, like he’s just learned something new.

-

Over the months, a routine emerges:

In the mornings, Akechi walks down through the town square. This is both to focus his aura and to stop by the farmer's market, because in return for room and board, he makes Muhen lunch. For the first months of their arrangement the dishes he'd made had been wanting, but as the months advanced he'd become more fluent with both produce and spices, and now the curries he makes Muhen actually finishes. 

In the afternoon, they run the shop. More often than not this is an excuse to listen to records, but sometimes one of the townsfolk will stumble in and request something. Akechi rings them up with quiet satisfaction as Muhen, glowing, answers questions.

At night he studies. In the loft above the store Muhen has many tomes on the finer points of Nen. How to hone a specialty and refine it. Condition and condition. How to kill. It makes him wonder: what did Muhen do before this, exactly? A wild and bloody youth, if these books are any indication. Muhen deflects his questions. _I'm old and retired. That's what being a Hunter is like._

He comes to understand that the improvisations Muhen plays on his cello are Nen incantations, more often than not. Often they are wards, protecting the town. An augmented A6 chord becomes a watchdog prowling the streets, a cascade of falling notes a hawk overhead. And sometimes they are something else. The song he had heard that night months ago, wandering up the lonely street, had been a nudging evaluation, one he had passed. 

It's fitting for Muhen to conjure a cello. When Akechi tries, he lands a heaping pile of splinters and broken strings for his efforts. Muhen laughs when he finds out. _Even the most skilled Conjurer can only conjure objects suited to them_. _Consider what your nature is suited for_. 

Akechi considers. By December he's manifested his first chain, a flimsy, impractical thing that looks more necklace-chain than weapon. It slithers through his fingers with borderline affection.

Chains are not the first metaphor Akechi had thought of. But they are what he had decided upon, after intense rumination. Oh, he'd considered it all, knives and blades and guns — but guns are instant, knives too fast. 

Chains offer versatility. You can capture an opponent as easily as kill them. When it comes down to it, why put someone out of their misery when you could elongate their suffering? Make them suffer as you have? 

"You don't lack for hatred," Muhen observes, when Akechi tells him this.

But he lets Akechi pursue the metaphor. And so he develops various techniques: a dowsing chain. A chain of judgment. Strengthens them with conditions, hatred, resolve. If Muhen is curious about the flurries of clinking that erupt from the attic nightly, he doesn't say.

In this way the year passes, and at the height of summer Akechi learns of the Hunter Exam's whereabouts once more: a yakuza-owned storefront, in Yorknew City, three weeks from the solstice.   
  


-

  
  
"But I must admit, I didn't think you'd be the only one passing this year's Exam," Maruki says. He's sipping an interminable melon juicebox. 

"Yes, well," Akechi says, blearily. "These things happen."

The yakuza-operated store proved a surprisingly legitimate model-gun business. It's run by a Hunter, too, one who looks substantially more dangerous than Maruki. An inky gecko lines the flat of his throat. Had it moved when he wasn’t looking?

"Iwai doesn't bite," Maruki says. "Why don't you tell him what's on your mind?"

"Yeah, kid," Iwai growls. "What's on your mind?"

Forget the gecko. Akechi gets right to the point. Iwai's bark of laughter is raucous. "A kid like you? Looking into human collectors? You even in college?"

"Look at him, Mune." Maruki's voice is reasonable. "He's not the most normal kid, is he? He's surprisingly strong."

"Fuckin’ strange, if you ask me," Iwai growls. Lodged in the growl is a definite note of curiosity. "Kid your age doesn't get that for free. Should have taken you years to get that point. Only kid I know like that is —"

"Mune," Maruki says. 

"Yeah, yeah," Iwai says. With a crunch the lollipop he's been chewing snaps clean in two. Akechi briefly wonders if every Hunter in the Association has their own idiotic sugary vice. "Well. What do you want to know?"

Akechi's evasive about it. Iwai isn't fooled. He does a great job of pretending, though, for both their sakes. "I mean, if you're lookin' for collector shit — dracodermal skin, actress hair, Scarlet Eyes —" and he does not miss how Akechi’s aura spikes at this, nor does Akechi miss how he listed it last — "then yeah, the auction is where you'll wanna be. No shit. They don't let just anyone in, though. And your shiny new license ain't gonna cut it."

"Bodyguard work," Akechi says.

"Yeah," Iwai says. "You're fast, kid."

Three rounds of questioning and a couple of ineffectual Maruki protests later, Iwai seems satisfied he's got the guts. He puts in a phone call to the Kaneshiro family. "You're not gonna like them," Iwai warns. "Lowest of the low. But that's what you want, right?"

Akechi's smile is sharp. This guy gets it. 

  
  


-

The Kaneshiro Family's as bad as Iwai promised. But they're good about vetting their men. On Akechi's first day on the job, a burly man with a full back of tattoos sizes him up and spits, with solemnity, in his face. Akechi leaves him alive, but not unharmed. That was the first test, apparently. The second, to retrieve a mummified hand, is even easier. 

The third is more substantial. Most of the weaker applicants are out at this stage. Akechi and the remaining dozens gather in a mansion nothing short of palatial, a six-story embarrassment plated on a manicured lawn. Marble lions grin unpleasantly around the hedges. Finally they are shepherded into a foyer and left to their own devices, which is when the atmosphere in the room congeals into outright hostility. The same feel as the Hunter Exam, only with more Nen. 

There are fewer grifters here, though, and more relatively promising auras: the girl clutching her shogi board like a talisman; the woman in orange aviators and popping lipstick, tape recorder in hand.

It's no surprise to anyone when they are told to fight each other for the six available positions. Thirty or so applicants. Everyone can do the math. The grifters are first to go; then the Hunters without Nen; then the Hunters whose Nen is not good enough, or whose resolve is too weak to kill. 

When the dust settles there really are six of them left. Shogi girl makes it, as does journalist lady. Number three is a woman with a shiny set of cards. A kid on a laptop crawling out from behind the topped banister makes four. Akechi makes five. 

Six is the boy Akechi's been watching. Curly black hair, slender flute in his fist. Judging from the way he's looking over here, he's taken notice of Akechi, too.

  
  


-

  
  


On day one the Mafia men who had proctored the exam call and leave instructions. Do whatever's asked of you until the Southernpiece Auction, three months away. Ten million jenny after it's over. They'll be largely helping plan security for the auction, roughing people up when necessarily. Maybe procure some items, too, for the family heir. What items? asks shogi girl, too innocent by half. You know, say the bodyguards, uncertainly. Noses? Skulls? 

Shogi girl doesn't shriek, but it's a close one.

None of the others knew they'd be working for human collectors, apparently. Their missions skew unsavory: procure a shriveled hand here, a preserved heart there. They’re all turned off by it. 

Flute boy doesn't look surprised at all, though. He looks like he's seen worse.

The six of them make each other's acquaintance quickly. The shogi girl is Hifumi, a prodigy from East Gorteau. She's mild-mannered enough off the board, but start a match and she instantly morphs into a general barking orders at her pieces. Ohya is a Yorknew native who is definitely _not_ here to investigate family ties, she tells Akechi nonchalantly. She can smell the SIU on him. Chihaya is a fortune-teller who really can see the future, albeit cryptically and in two-minute bursts. 

Then there are two kids his age. The worse — worse? — one is Mishima, a kid whose Nen is too weak to be passable, but he’s competent enough at information-gathering to be an asset to the team. Maybe. Akechi isn’t sure yet.

The other one is flute boy. Akira.

Who is _better,_ in the sense that he’s not a liability, but is _worse_ in the sense that everything about him inexplicably rankles Akechi.

For starters, he's got music Nen. Conjures that little flute and fights with it. From Akechi's sample size of one, this should mean Akira loves music, but he barely listens to it. Doesn’t have a favorite artist, or even own headphones.

But he can’t be lying about his powers, because he hears things Akechi does not. Grumbling azaleas, pittering ladybug feet, the flustered heartbeats of the Family goons who stroll the complex uncertainly, rightfully terrified of Nen. He seems able to hear practically anything, and to infer too much from what he hears.

Like Akechi's heartbeat. Akira says it's the angriest one he's ever heard, which probably isn't a detail he could invent. 

So maybe Akechi doesn't know as much about music as he thinks. 

But he still hates the idea of someone effortlessly knowing this, and does his best to avoid Akira until someone has the bright idea to partner them for a routine checkup on family turf. It's a setup, though, and they end up backs to the wall of a parking lot five floors underground, surrounded by blacksuits with crowbars radiating sadistic glee. 

Akira's — good, in combat. He can acknowledge that. Fifteen minutes later the vermin are trussed up in a monstrous nest of chains and at their mercy.

Akechi is not known for mercy. He steps forward lightly. As he does, the ends of the chains on his fingers morph into sickles and tremble with anticipation. 

Akira doesn't miss this. "What are you doing?" 

Akechi gives him a look. In the SIU, in Zaban, no one would have asked. But here Akira is, asking. 

Akira glances between Akechi and the quivering nest of bodies. "You've captured them. You've done enough."

"You can't seriously be feeling pity for this trash," Akechi says. Someone like this is working for human collectors? "All they do is terrorize people. No one will miss them."

"It's not pity," says Akira. "They can't atone if you kill them."

These people are worthless. What's it to him? 

They stare at each other a moment, an over-long moment that leaves Akechi thinking he knows a way to settle this.

He's first to test the waters. A single, indifferent chain rises from his finger. Twirls deliberately, in invitation. Akira narrows his eyes and whistles a harsh, dissonant sound; the chain wriggles a little, straining against it, before it resettling with a pacified _clink_ on Akechi's hand. 

It’s a clear message. Akira will fight him if he insists. 

And there's no reason to insist, really, on removing this scum, except that part of him finds the notion of that fight strangely exhilarating. 

"Have it your way," Akechi says. If Akira hears the excited thrum of his heartbeat, he doesn't say anything. 

  
-

They acknowledge each other, after that. Actually, they talk often. Akira is still irritatingly mysterious. He can barely distinguish classical and jazz. His whistling is tone-deaf. Once, while cleaning the attic, Akechi thinks he sees him summon a vacuum cleaner. He definitely sees him whisper it instructions, like it can understand.

Akira has other talents, too. He's got a strange way of getting others to open up, and he doesn't use any Nen tricks to do it. He's just a good listener. So they learn about Hifumi's mom problems, Ohya's former partner, Chihaya's exile from her town, Mishima’s — actually, they don’t learn anything about Mishima — over a bonfire in the yard with marshmallows Akira's somehow procured. When it's time for Akira himself to do some sharing, though, the hour is suddenly very late and everyone's tired and sugar-crashing. 

And he's so weird. Take for example how everyone in their cohort has been assigned a room, in this mansion stupidly overflowing with rooms. Akira completely disregards the missive and takes up in the attic, which has no chairs and no bed. He seems to genuinely prefer it. 

"Nice, right? It's got potential." Akira drapes his coat over a bunch of crates and lies flat on his back, looking at Akechi expectantly. Insulation peels from the ceiling. 

Akechi thinks of what to say. No, perhaps?

Akira continues admiring his newfound space like he’s appraising a vintage find. "Spacious, with a big window. You could rappel down, if you needed to."

"Clean getaways are important to you, then," Akechi says innocently. 

"Could be, Detective."

Akechi has asked Akira so many pointed questions in the last month that Akira's taken to ironically calling him _Detective_. He doesn't dislike it.

He makes a show of it, though. "Must you be so evasive? We're working together. You could act like it."

"You're not exactly forthright about your own background," Akira says, very reasonably. "I don't know anything about you either. Why don’t you go first?"

Akechi doesn’t bother responding. Loose lips, etc. He’s not going to have his revenge plot foiled by spilling his guts to _Akira_ of all people.

“I can keep a secret,” Akira says. He’s not looking at the ceiling anymore. “Let’s make a deal. I'm curious about you too, you know."

He stomps downstairs. Akira's stymied laughter follows him through the rafters.

  
  
-  
  
  


Akira is right about one thing, though. Over the next few weeks his attic becomes altogether homely. He dusts and furnishes it with janitorial diligence, filling up the space with posters and trinkets he purchases from the Yorknew bazaars. 

Actually, he steals them. Akechi figures this out when he watches Akira haggle for powdered falcon-claw like he was born for it. He pits two neighboring stalls against each other without them noticing. It's all for show, because his aim isn't the falcon claw but the legions of discounted JoyStation games in the filmy bin at the front of the stall. He makes off with a good dozen cartridges loading his pockets, none of which he’s paid for.

"The whole point is to distract them," Akira says. A dark green beetle splays upside-down on the pavement, hissing plaintively. He rights it with the toe of his sandal and watches it skitter down the alleyway. "Apparently these are out of print. Collectors will pay loads for them." 

"You know a lot about video games," Akechi says curiously, because Akira doesn't seem like someone who even owns a phone.

"Nah," Akira says. "My sister does, though."

Akira's never mentioned a sister before. He sounds truthful, but he sounded just as truthful back at the bazaar. "Your sister? What's she like?" 

"Pretty weird. Why do you ask?"

"Trying to figure out whether you have one," Akechi says. 

They look at each other for a moment. Akira snorts first. That breaks Akechi's composure, and then they're both doubled over in the alleyway, looking and sounding like kids in on a joke instead of a human collector's hired muscle. 

_Am I having fun?_ Akechi thinks, aghast. 

"You can meet her," Akira says. "No, I'm serious. She's in Yorknew right now. Our friends, too, if you want.”

"What," Akechi says. "What about your — air of mystery?"

"No idea what you mean,” Akira says. “I just think it’d be fun — hanging out with you. If you're interested," he adds, because he doesn't miss the way Akechi’s tensed up at the invitation, like a squirrel in the street.

  
  
-

Neither of them follow up on the invitation, because the day after it's made, work picks up. Suddenly there are tasks in spades: routine patrols, searching cars, stakeouts. It’s busy. No time for recreation.

Akechi isn't sure when he learns to genuinely tolerate Akira, but he can pinpoint when they reach something approximating friendship. It's partway through October, when Akira is assigned a robbery, and Akechi volunteers to go with him. 

From the standpoint of completing the mission faster, this is worse than useless, but Akira's so chuffed to have the company he doesn't bring it up. It just becomes more and more obvious as they skitter up the Yorknew Museum's many floors, as Akira dismantles security systems that leave Akechi baffled — how is he doing this?!

After half an hour squeezing through air ducts they emerge in the director's office. There’s expensive whiskey on the desk. Under it, a small safe with five separate lock mechanisms. They look complicated. 

Akira dismantles the first in ten seconds flat. 

"How are you so good at this?" Akechi demands. He can’t hold it in any longer. Is he literally a thief?

"I'm a thief," Akira says. "Professionally." He sees the look on Akechi's face. "Is that hard to believe?"

No, when he thinks about it. Those reflexes, that stunt at the bazaar, the way he reaches over at breakfast and plucks the best grapes from Hifumi's plate unnoticed. 

"Everything you say is hard to believe," Akechi says instead. It feels less true than it used to.

"I don't lie," Akira says, "usually. And to you, very rarely." 

Akechi thinks: _that’s exactly what you’d say if you were lying._

The second lock falls victim to the lockpick suspiciously fast, as does the third. Akechi actually checks to see if the pick is a conjuration. It's not, which means Akira is simply that _dextrous_. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse. Several moments later the two remaining locks swing open.

The safe has a number of priceless artifacts. The stupid diadem they've been searching for. A shaman's Nen-imbued mask. Documents, and other things. Akira cleans everything out. Wipes down the safe with an odd little cloth to remove prints. He takes the whiskey, too, for style points. 

Then he looks up at the ceiling, casually reaches into a pocket, and — makes a face. Rummages. 

Akira has forgotten his grappling hook. "It's usually on me," he says sheepishly. Akechi is not impressed. "Chains could work in a pinch, though?" 

They negotiate for ten or so minutes. Akira explains meticulously how it works, what it looks like. On his fourth or fifth try Akechi conjures something pretty presentable: four curved metal prongs, a firing mechanism. 

"This is perfect.” Akira lifts it in his palm, admiring. “You've really never seen a grappling hook before?"

"Why would I?" Akechi says flatly. "I'm not the professional thief." 

"It's just nice." Akira turns it over. "Really nice craftsmanship. I want one." 

He whoops with delight when Akechi grabs him by the waist and sends them flying through the air, crashing through the skylight into the anonymity of Tokyo's night. It's a comically unsubtle escape and it sets off five separate rooftop alarms, but there's a freeze-frame where they smash through the glass and a thousand shards suspend around them, and Akechi thinks: he gets the appeal. Thieving is exhilarating. Akira’s backside is pressed against him, warm and strangely comforting.

  
-

  
The next day, he finds himself wondering: how had Akira made off with that loot? That shouldn't fit in anyone's pockets. He tramps down the hall, buzzing at his own realization, and inadvertently bumps into Akira on his way down for breakfast.

"You're hiding something," he accuses. Akira blinks up at him, sleepy in black silk pajamas too expensive for him by half. Stolen? No, house property. "You can’t fit all that treasure in your pockets."

"s'early," Akira complains. An exaggerated yawn proves his point. "Don't follow."

"Last night," Akechi says. "The cloth. I saw you use a cloth." 

Akira blinks, owlish. The tiredness is gone from his eyes. Now he looks like a bird of prey.

"I'm well prepared," he says. "Is that a crime?"

“Show me the cloth, Akira.” 

"I don't want to," Akira says, petulant. 

"I just want to understand," Akechi says. Making a wild guess, or a deft one. "How'd you get so good at conjuration?"

Akira shoots him a look. "I'm not a Conjurer."

Hifumi is on breakfast duty today. She's made omurice for everyone, drawn shakey ketchup smileys on their plates. Akechi's is very wobbly. Breakfast is usually a congenial affair, but today Akira scarfs down his helping in record time and fucking bolts. Without him the conversation congeals rapidly, as if he's the only thing they've got in common. The social sun they all revolve around. 

"Did you guys fight?" Ohya says, examining her phone with exaggerated disinterest.

Akechi realizes that six pairs of eyes are trained on him. His fork clatters down, cushioned by omelette.

"I'm sorry?" he demands. "Was that directed at me?"

"Yeah?" Ohya says. "Lovebirds."

Mishima chokes on his toast. Chihaya barely stifles her laughter.

  
  


-

The attic window is conspicuously open when he gets there. Akechi peers outside. Nothing. Then he looks up. 

Akira's seated on the intersection of two roof-slopes, perched like he's about to take flight. The wind is pleasantly ruffling his hair.

"You look like a gargoyle," Akechi calls, after several moments. Akira grins: an invitation.

He actually can't figure out how to get up there without using the grappling hook he’d created last night. Once he's there, though, it's kind of nice. The sunlight strewn over Akira's face makes his pupils constrict, like a cat's. He is staring to the south, toward Yorknew and its blocky outlines.

“Hi,” says Akira. His position is precarious. “Detective.”

Akechi looks at him, takes a deep breath, and unleashes a barrage of questions. 

Akira’s not a Conjurer, but he’s got at least three conjurations. Did he train under a Conjurer? Or are they enchanted physical objects? That would make him a Manipulator, but who carries that stuff around? Does he even like music? For that matter, does he even know what music is? 

Akira rubs his eyes. "Look — Akechi." He sounds resigned. "I'll tell you anything you want, _after_ the auction. Can you hold off until then? It’s not like I ask you about your revenge plot.”

"My what," Akechi says.

"Your revenge, or whatever." Akira gives him a look as if to say _Are you kidding?_ “Do you know what your heartbeat sounds like?"

If Akira can interpret his heartbeat as _bloodlust,_ he’s not just a nuisance, he’s a liability. A loose end. If he says the wrong thing to the wrong person — everything Akechi’s worked for will be gone, just like that. No Eyes, no Thieves. 

_It would be safest,_ something whispers, _to kill him now._

“I told you already,” Akira says. “I can keep a secret.” 

_Shove him off the roof, where nobody will see._

“Akechi? … You’re spacing out.”

I don’t want to, Akechi realizes.

“Hang out with me in Yorknew,” Akira says. “This weekend.” 

“What?”

“Welcome back,” says Akira flippantly. Then he leans forward, squarely into Akechi's personal space, and jabs a finger into his chest. 

"Hang out with me in Yorknew," Akira says. "Like we talked about, the other day.” The wind is whipping his hair into an animated frenzy. "If you want to know about me so badly, why can’t you get to know me?”

Akechi suddenly feels — vertigo. 

He shoves himself down the roofing. Akira’s gaze follows him down the shingles and back into the house.

  
  


-

He does head into Yorknew that weekend, strangely enough, but not with Akira. 

Maruki had insisted on seeing Akechi again, for reasons Akechi couldn’t fathom — for a routine check-up, he’d phrased it, as if that was something Hunters just _did_ — and then days earlier he’d gotten a text from a number he didn’t know: _akechi-kun! i’ve got business in yorknew this month. would you be down to meet? and would this weekend do?_

Even Akechi couldn’t exactly refuse someone who had treated him so altruistically. He meets Maruki at his makeshift office, a drab room sorely in need of a paint-job. The potted plant in the window is on its last legs, its petals an anemic shade of blue. 

"Not as nice as the old place, huh?" Maruki says ruefully, as if reading Akechi's mind. "But it's nothing I can't fix up. How are you feeling, Akechi-kun?"

Akechi doesn't sugarcoat it. Maruki's glasses fly up. "Terrible?!" 

He spritzes the plant with a spray bottle of slightly off-color water, and — surely that isn't juice. "Can you tell me more about whatever’s on your mind?"

Akira and his relentless insouciance. The fact that he has never seen him listen to music, not even once. Vertigo. "No."

Maruki’s laugh is genuine. He thinks Akechi’s funny. “But then how will we make progress with your therapy?” 

“We won’t,” says Akechi. 

He doesn’t need _progress_. He just needs revenge.

Maruki chews a pen for a good ten seconds figuring out what to say next. He picks up a form-covered clipboard and stares at it, frowning.

"Akechi-kun," he tries, carefully examining a blank medical chart, "sometimes I worry that your anger is negatively impacting your life. Don't you think so?"

"I've never said anything about being angry," Akechi says. 

"I am a counselor, you know," Maruki says, with a laugh that on another person wouldn't have any amusement in it. "We could try medication. Or talk therapy, if you're amenable to it. Whatever makes you feel better."

"I'll pass," Akechi says. 

"Akechi-kun —"

"What makes you think I want to _stop_ being angry?" Akechi hisses. "Do you know how it feels to watch someone you love die before your eyes?"

Maruki doesn’t say anything, but there's a momentary flicker in his expression, something raw that Akechi feels, instinctively, he hadn’t meant to share. 

Time unpauses. The hydrangea in the window twinkles impassively.

"Let me help you, Akechi-kun," Maruki says softly. He's not pretending to fill out the forms anymore. His pen drums on the clipboard in fretful, tiny taps. 

In the end, Akechi successfully refuses the pills and the checkups — but he does deign to accept a massage before he leaves, purely for stress relief. _You won’t need to say anything,_ Maruki had said. _You’ll feel better. I promise you that._

And he does. It's nicer than expected. Maruki is a professional: his thumbs rub deft circles into the small of Akechi’s back, his fingers draw patterns up his spine and through his scalp. All tension leaves Akechi’s body, leaves him loose and sleepy, and as he dozes he finds himself wondering why he’d declined Akira’s invitation in the first place.

The hydrangea in the window gleams brightly at him. It is dazzlingly blue.

  
  


-

  
  


Over the course of the next week, Akechi feels surprisingly light. The irritation that had plagued him has completely evaporated. In fact, he feels good enough to bring up Akira’s invitations, which makes Akira visibly balk. 

"Is it — not okay anymore?" Akechi asks, uncertain. 

"No," Akira says, eyeing him under a scope. "I just never thought you'd take me up on it.”

  
  


Their first stop will be Futaba, Akira says matter-of-factly, as they begin the long trek into town. That’s his sister. After that it depends on what Akechi wants to do. Coffee? An arcade? A record store? 

Anything’s fine, Akechi says. Akira looks at him suspiciously.

Futaba lives in an attic on top of a curry store with erratic business hours. When she doesn't let them in, Akira picks the lock. Her place is covered with little glow-in-the-dark stickers and action figurines and a host of monitors that make the Family's tech division look like amateurs. As siblings go, she and Akira don't look very much alike, but they share a distinct aura of mischief that helps Akechi understand their relationship. She’s engrossed in some kind of fighting game from before they arrive until after they leave, but that doesn't stop her from responding with razor wit to everything Akira and Akechi say. 

“How do you do that?” Akechi says. “Respond so quickly?”

"Parallel processing," Futaba says. Akechi raises his eyebrows. 

"She's very online," Akira says apologetically. 

"That's not online," Futaba shoots back. "It's just computers."

Akira musses her hair in retort. She elbows him. The easy familiarity makes Akechi wistful. 

“You two are siblings?” he says, to have something to say. “Where did you grow up?"

Akira opens his mouth. "Nuh-uh," Futaba says, waggling a finger she shouldn't be able to spare from her controller. "That's social link rank 8, at least!"

"I don't know what that means," Akechi says.

"C'mon, back me up here!" Futaba says. "Akira!"

“Five or six, maybe,” Akira says, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Hanging out with them is fun. There’s no other word for it. Half an hour later, though, Akira decides they’ve imposed enough. They let Futaba peacefully complete her gaming session and scuttle down her fire escape to the ground floor, because Akira refuses to simply use the door. 

“What, if you break in you have to break out?”

“Exactly,” Akira says. His flair for the dramatic is— well, today it doesn’t seem so bad. “What do you want to do?”

The answer turns out not to matter, because they do everything. Akira’s eager to show him all his favorite Yorknew haunts, dragging him through a carousel of bookstores and coffeeshops. They cap off the day at a dessert place Akira’s been meaning to try. Akechi, who isn’t a dessert person, orders a melon shake; Akira rolls his eyes and gets the special, large enough for two.

Even Akechi finds himself thinking Akira made the right call when it shows up, a towering pyramid of glistening coffee jelly, mocha syrup and cream. A whole slice of castella is nestled visibly in the glass. The waitress glances at them and comes back with an extra spoon. 

“Cheers,” Akira says.

Akira’s preferred haunts are surprisingly quiet, solitary businesses. But the bustling interior and acoustics of the parfait-shop are, counterintuitively, more effective in establishing privacy between its occupants. It’s the perfect atmosphere for real conversation. 

Akira isn’t as combative as Akechi remembers. He listens with huge eyes and laughs when he should. In turn, he regales Akechi with tales of his worst escapades (“You broke into a _pyramid?”_ “Are you saying you wouldn’t?”) around mouthfuls of parfait, until they’re both breathless from laughter and the glass is scraped clean. 

After that they do a bit of aimless walking around Yorknew until sundown, because Akira wants to watch the sun set. He finds a promising-looking service staircase — _Rooftop Access, Do Not Enter_ — and ten minutes later they're on a rooftop garden watching Yorknew fall into dusky blue shadow. 

There'd been an eruption two weeks ago, off the southwest coast of the nation, and for the last two weeks the atmosphere has been thick with ash, every sunset a brilliant, corroded red. 

But that's finally clearing up now, and tonight's sky is a vision, smeared with glittering pastel hues and stars. The green-blue-purple of it, iridescent, reminds Akechi of hydrangeas. He could watch it forever, with Akira at his side. 

"Hey, Akechi?" Akira says. "Did you... enjoy today?" 

"Of course," Akechi says honestly. Does he even need to ask?

Futaba was nice. Akira was nice. 

To be honest, he'd really like to do this again sometime. Next weekend, maybe?

Akira's looking at him strangely. "Your heartbeat," he says, fumbling for the word. "It's... placid."

Akechi puts two fingers on his neck. Listens. He doesn't feel any different. _Thump_. _Thump_.

He does feel calm, though. Something about Akira's presence, and the cool wash of evening air, and the purity of this moment he wants to linger in. 

"It's not the heartbeat of someone who has something to do," Akira says, quietly. He stands near enough to Akechi for their fingertips to touch.

It's an odd thing to say, because Akechi does have something to do. He has for weeks. Akira gasps into the kiss. The first impressions Akechi registers are coffee and cream, the remnants of a trip to the parfait shop which feels distant enough now to have taken place in another world, a world in which he'd never kissed Akira. Soon enough that dissolves and is replaced by the taste of Akira, clever and warm and _his_ , as they press into the railing and Akechi tugs insistent fingers through Akira's hair and is rewarded by a soft little noise he could never tire of hearing. 

It feels like it goes on for longer than it does, because suddenly Akira is no longer melting into him. No, he breaks the kiss completely, splaying a gentle hand on Akechi’s ribcage and pushing away. 

Akechi doesn’t understand. It had been good, hadn't it? 

"Do you really want this?" Akira says. 

Why does he need to ask? 

"More than anything," Akechi says hoarsely.

In that moment, it’s the truth. And it seems to give Akira the conviction he needs. Because it's Akira who moves on him now, Akira whose mouth devours his own, Akira whose fingers urgently claw through his hair. Akechi loses himself in this just as completely, and it ends just as abruptly, when Akira pulls away lightning-fast, flushed and triumphant and holding something wriggly he's plucked from Akechi's scalp. 

It’s a slug. A little black slug is squirming in his fingers. As Akechi watches in horror, it wriggles out of his grasp and ricochets down his pants leg in alarm, making a run for it —

Then Akira extends a pointed foot, and squashes it. 

  
  


-

  
  


"Maruki is a Manipulator," Akira says, as Akechi retches violently, for the fifth time, into an incredibly opulent sink. Nothing's coming up. "You couldn't have known." 

“What did he _do to me?”_

“I don’t know, but he probably thought he was helping you. You’d have to ask him,” Akira says, very reasonably. 

His hand is resting on Akechi’s shoulder. Akechi wants to fling it away. He wants to break every one of his fingers. 

“What did you guys talk about?"

“We didn’t talk about anything,” Akechi says, through gritted teeth. A fresh wave of nausea wracks him at the recollection. 

Akira doesn't expose his lie. "Okay," he says. Beat. "I wish you'd tell me."

A couple more beats. "You should probably also invest in contacts."

Akechi figures out the issue when he sees himself in the mirror. 

"I can hear your bloodlust from here," Akira calls. 

  
  


-

  
  


Akira extracts the truth from him over breakfast. Scarlet eyes, dead moms, the Thieves, all that jazz. Honestly, Akechi just tells him. It’s not like Akira doesn’t know most of it already. 

“To be honest, I knew most of that already,” Akira says, frowning. Sunlight is streaming through the kitchen blinds. A pile of uneaten toast-crusts sit on his plate. “The new part is the Phantom Thieves. Are you… sure they did that? To your mom?”

“Yes,” Akechi says. 

“Can you tell me why you think that?” Akira says, sounding oddly irritated. 

Akechi does. 

“A whole prosecution, huh… I guess that makes sense,” Akira says. He twirls one of the crusts slowly. It’s apparent he’s uncomfortable. “But the timing’s all off, they weren’t — I don’t even think they were active ten years ago. It just doesn’t seem like something they’d do.”

“What could you _possibly_ know about it?” Akechi snarls. “Do you _know_ them?”

It’s meant to be pointlessly insulting, but Akira’s expression deforms for a moment, in an odd way. 

“Yeah, actually,” he says. “I've met them and I don't think they're the kind of people you think they are —"

“I’m sorry,” Akechi interjects, because he cannot believe what he is hearing. “You’ve _met_ the Phantom Thieves?”

"— and I'll bring you straight to them," Akira continues, with a jut of his chin, “ _after_ the auction. If you’d like that.”

“Of course I’d fucking like that,” Akechi hisses, “but why can’t you do that _now?”_

“Reasons,” Akira says.

He elaborates on the reasons over the next few days, mostly to deal with Akechi. Thief’s honor: thieves don’t sell thieves out. He has to check if it’s okay with them. He has business to attend to? 

“Fine,” Akira says, on the fourth consecutive day of pestering. “It’s because I don’t think they did it, and I want to convince you, too. Otherwise you’ll just try to kill them, right?” 

Prior to Akira, Akechi had only been aware of two kinds of people’s existences: those for whom the Thieves were an urban legend, and those who were aware they were very real and very menacing. 

Akira’s introduced a whole new category for him, though. Apologists. 

A couple Internet searches reveal he’s not alone. The Phan-Site is the largest forum dedicated to the concept. They’re several thousand users strong and are staunch believers that the Thieves are good guys framed for everything, presumably by Big Evil. People believe this stuff? 

It’s a view they share with Akira. 

“Can you… not tell Mishima this?” Akira says one morning, as Akechi walks into the kitchen and takes a seat. Whatever he’s preparing smells surprisingly good. 

“Why would I tell Mishima?” Akechi says. The question is bizarre. “I’ve never talked to Mishima.”

“Great,” Akira says. “Okay.”

Then he tells Akechi a hopelessly naive story. About a bunch of orphans living in a forgotten city in the impact crater of a meteor. Misfits thrown out by rotten caretakers, who needed strength to survive. They’d started out doing petty crimes, but hang out in Meteor City long enough and Nen finds its way to you, heh. And then they'd stumbled into a leader a bit more intentional about the whole crime thing. Less day to day survival, more how can we change the world?

"That doesn't sound very much like the Phantom Thieves at all," Akechi says. "You expect me to believe they're essentially vigilantes?"

Akira pours a can of tomatoes into a pan. They start spluttering. "Is it so hard to believe?"

It's that hard to believe because everything they've been linked to in the news is, well, worse. Human trafficking and torture. Outright massacres of clans. "Yeah, they don't do that," says Akira. What about the spate of murders in Parasta? Or the abductions in East Gorteau? None of it's them, according to Akira. A very elaborate frame job, but a job nonetheless. "They don't kill people," Akira says. "They've been framed for a lot of things. As far as I know, they mostly just steal hearts." 

"I'm sorry?" Akechi says.

Akira winces. It's a rare look on him, the spoken misstep. "Weird wording, I guess. Hard to explain." He scrapes down the pan a bit too aggressively trying to explain it. People have desires, which are sometimes warped, and sometimes you can steal them, with Nen. Which reforms them, but also makes them prone to crying fits, hopeless apologia, etc. 

It actually fits with some of the stories Akechi has heard. The con artist Madarame and his inexplicably maudlin press conference last month. A couple others, over the years. But that had just been — 

"Coincidence?" Akira says. "You believe in coincidence, now?" 

"More than I believe — this," Akechi says. Implying _more than I believe you._

Akira turns away and starts peeling a bulb of ginger. He chops it with a pointedness that makes Akechi want to keep talking. “Think about what you're saying. That kind of cover-up could only come from the highest levels of government."

Akira shrugs, no longer chopping. If he's noticed Akechi is all but pleading, he doesn't show it. "Don't believe it if you don't want to." 

He’s nicked himself with the knife. A drop of blood is beading from the gash. 

-

Akechi can't stop thinking about it, though. Something about the solemnity with which Akira told his stupid story, like he thought he was telling the truth.

Hifumi doesn’t know anything. Chihaya hasn’t either, but she wants to help. Akechi summarizes very vaguely so she can perform a reading. “I think your friend is telling the truth,” she says solemnly, “but the World’s upside down, so it’s hard to say.” 

Mishima squeaks with excitement and drags him to his room, which turns out to be serious fanboy zone. “It’s Phan-Boy,” Mishima protests. “You know, with a Ph? But dude, you asked the right guy.” He’s visibly preening. “The Thieves are, like, _so_ innocent. I’ll get you ramped up in no time.”

He sends Akechi twenty separate links in an IM window. The first is _Phan-Site - Beginner resources (1 of 53)._ Akechi opens the tab and reads the first six words of the forum post — _what is UP my phellow phanboyz!!! —_ before closing it.

Ohya is better. “Yeah, I know them,” she says. “They killed my partner. What about them?”

“Great,” Akechi says. 

“I’m sorry?” says Ohya.

“Fuck,” Akechi says, and explains the whole thing, with liberties.

“You’ve... got a bet, with your friend, on whether the Phantom Thieves exist,” Ohya says, slowly, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing, “and whether they kill people? That’s… actually pretty interesting.”

It’s interesting because of how neatly it dovetails with her story. Ohya refuses to tell him more until he uses the bottle of whiskey Akira stole from the museum director as barter. “Kid, _where_ did you get this?!” she exclaims, after a blissful inhalation. “It’s incredible! Okay, so, Kayo.” 

Kayo was her journalism partner who vanished after their investigation into the Kaneshiros — “don’t tell anyone,” Ohya said, “ _obviously_ ” — started going a little too well. Just vanished. They’d said she’d had a mental breakdown, but she wasn’t in any of the Yorknew institutions Ohya called. And then they’d changed their tune, said the Phantom Thieves had done her in. 

“The thing is, Kayo liked the Phantom Thieves,” Ohya says, hiccuping. “Thought they were — good. Probably. And she was a nobody. The Yorknew PD falsifies evidence all the time. So the more I think about it, the less I think it was them. You reading me?” 

It’s a lot to think about. Mishima corners Akechi at breakfast the next day with a newfound informality Akechi is pretty sure he does not like. “Did you like my links?”

“Um,” Akechi says. 

“Check this out, dude,” Mishima says, completely unfazed. “It’s, like, a rare photo someone just found! From when the Thieves started out! Okay, so there’s a lot of compression, but you can definitely _kind_ of make Joker out, and… oh, yeah, you can look too, Akira!” Because Akira’s drifted over and is hovering by Akechi’s shoulder, like an oversized gnat.

Whatever’s on Mishima’s phone barely counts as a photograph. Through the compression and noise artifacts, it’s just possible to make out a face. Black hair, a mask over the eyes. Totally indeterminate.

Obnoxious.

“They’ve got an expert,” Mishima says, visibly buzzing. “A top-tier hacker or something —but they missed this file somehow, and I did a pretty good job enhancing it, right? What do you guys think?”

For some reason Akechi’s still looking at the photograph. Trying to make anything out is futile, but something about the jaw is registering a faint note of… he doesn’t know.

“Looks stupid,” he says.

Mishima gawks. “Dude, you can’t just — that’s _Joker,_ man! Akira! What do you think?” 

“I think Akechi’s right,” Akira says evenly.

“Who the fuck is Joker?” Akechi demands.

“The… leader of the Thieves?” Mishima says. “Are you sure you read my posts?”

He’s saved from going any further down this tortuous route by breakfast proper. Ohya’s on duty today. She might be the second-weakest breakfast-maker of the six — Mishima’s bad enough the rest have stopped letting him try — but the pancakes are serviceable, the instant coffee fine. Today it’s better than fine, because the mug she hands him at least half whiskey by volume. Ohya winks conspiratorially and gasps in delight when he downs the whole thing in one draught. 

-

  
  


There is another scandal in the news that week. The famous athlete, Kamoshida, a five-year Floor Master at Heavens Arena. He confesses to a litany of abuses so extensive that thirty seconds in Chihaya decides she’s had enough and turns off the TV.

It’s coincidence. 

Akira gets a look in his eyes when he hears that. It's not a look Akechi likes. "Hey, Akechi. Do you think our meeting was coincidence?" 

He never sounds disdainful, but the way he enunciates _coincidence_ , here, is dangerously close. Akechi carefully does not respond.

-

One week later, Akechi's on breakfast duty when Akira strolls into the kitchen.

"I'm going to prove their innocence today," he says matter-of-factly, like he's reporting on the weather.

"Great," Akechi says. "Have fun with that."

Akira wordlessly slinks out of the kitchen. He peers back at Akechi once, at the end of the corridor, like a baleful cat. Akechi doesn't take the bait; when he looks up a good ten seconds later, Akira's gone. 

The day passes without incident. It isn't as though he needs Akira to occupy himself. He helps retrieve a specialized camcorder for Mishima, who claims to need it for security reasons but has entirely too many Phan-Site windows open to substantiate the fact. He makes calls. He patrols the gardens. He doesn’t need Akira.

He has Chihaya read his fortune — Justice, the Fool, the Hanged Man again. "It seems... complicated," she says mournfully. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

He even talks to Hifumi and gets roped into learning the most basic shogi openings before excusing himself to do, literally, anything else — but there's nothing else to do. 

Eventually he goes up to the rooftop to think.

Maybe it was inevitable he'd find Ohya here. She's slouched against a railing and smells faintly of booze. One look at his restless movements and she diagnoses him correctly. "Fighting again?" 

Akechi ends up telling her why, precisely because she doesn't ask. Ohya nods and offers him a swig from her flask. She’s still whittling down the whiskey he traded her weeks ago. Yorknew and its buildings are visible for miles below, grimy, multitudinous.

Ohya understands he wants distraction. She suggests a game: pick a street corner, visible from here, and she'll tell you something fun about it. Maybe crime, maybe not.

"Okay," says Akechi, jabbing a thumb at nothing.

3rd and Continental, Ohya says. There was a shootout at that bar five years ago — Mafia stuff — nobody got out. Akechi picks another crossing. North and... 8th? Pretty quiet area, but a nice dog park a couple streets down. He picks a building this time, tall and nondescript. Ohya hums. That place used to be a federal archive. Now it's just housing. Serial killer used to live there, moved out the month she moved in. Next question.

Inane as it is, it gets the job done. Ohya knows her city and has a knack for tales. Shadows lengthen around them; they only stop playing when the dusk deepens sufficiently that it's impossible to make out the intersections anymore. Somehow Akechi's emptied the flask, too. Enjoying not the taste but the burn that follows. 

They stand in silence for a while, lost on parallel tracks of thought. 

Eventually Ohya lights a cigarette.

"I used to fight a lot," she says, apropos of nothing. "With Kayo. That was just how we were. It wasn't like you guys — or, hell, maybe it was — but we were both real firebrands. You know, fighting for the hell of it. Taking too long to make up. The last thing I ever said to her, actually, was pretty mean. Fucked, right?" 

Her laugh is pained enough it's a blessing that she turns it into a cough. A shower of embers flake off the tip of her cigarette. 

"I guess I just took it for granted that we'd keep fighting,” Ohya says. Akechi gets the feeling she isn’t really talking to him, not anymore. “That there’d be a next time. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. Maybe what I'm saying is, you don't always get to say goodbye." 

  
  
-

  
  


Ohya leaves him on the roof to think about it. Eight whole seconds of contemplation later, Mishima barrels through the rooftop door.

"Whoa," Mishima says. "Am I interrupting something? Your Nen is _crazy_ from here."

"What do you want," Akechi says.

"Well, I can't sense it," Mishima amends. "But this new gadget I have? It picks up Nen readings in the area, and when I got up here — whoa, it's spiking again — oh, shit, right. Have you seen Akira anywhere?"

Akechi doesn't respond.

"I thought you might know. You know, since you guys are kinda — oh man, it's spiking again," Mishima says, wondrous. "Dude. Is this thing broken?"

A chain darts out from Akechi's hand like a rattlesnake, lightning-fast. It smashes Mishima's device to smithereens.

"Where Akira is," he hisses, "isn't my _fucking problem_."

Mishima opens his mouth to say something, looks at Akechi, and thinks better of it. 

"Uh," he says. "Yeah. Of course not. It's just... I kind of bugged his phone, earlier, and the GPS tracker hasn’t moved for hours?” 

  
  


-

They trace Akira's Nen to the Cemetery Building. Akechi has never worked with Mishima before in any significant capacity. Mishima is a Manipulator whose Nen is useless for fighting, but well-suited for navigating. He makes it surprisingly easy to get inside the building — disables the keycards, quietly jams sensors. 

"You've got fifteen minutes before they notice," he buzzes in Akechi's ear, proudly. "Probably." 

(He’d stuck a pin just below Akechi’s ear before he’d left, the better to feed him intel, like a helpful mosquito.)

Akechi doesn't answer him. Instead he finds a lonely elevator and takes it all the way down, because Akira's Nen is fluttering far underground, dangerously unstable. 

Fifteen floors down the elevator spits him into a hallway crawling with guards. He sees the door at the end. That’s the door. 

A single chain uncoils itself and starts snaking through his fingers, followed by two more. 

"It would probably be better to not fight them," Mishima's voice squeaks from the pin. "If there's any other way. You could pretend you're here to interrogate him? Disguise yourself?" 

He doesn't see how violently the chains on Akechi's fingers are jangling, like the foreshocks of a quake. 

"Okay. I'm, uh, not going to question your methods, but — okay," says Mishima, as the last guard slumps to the floor.

  
  


-

  
  


Inside:

Akira's splayed across a desk, glassy-eyed and bleeding. Bruises speckle his limbs, his face. He doesn't recognize Akechi. 

The guards, agitated, exclaim: _A kid? What's he doing here?! We'll have to get rid of him too, what a hindrance_ —

Mishima says something, or a couple things, about being careful, and Akechi takes the pin out, very carefully, because he's not interested in hearing them. A curious feeling is overcoming him, bright and scarlet, bubbling through his limbs and up through his lungs.

It's all a blur from there. He doesn't even remember using his chains. He just remembers the aftermath: a pin buzzing on the floor, motionless bodies, dust-choked air, blood crashing through his ears.

Akira trembles in his grasp. His heartbeat flutters against Akechi's own, helpless as a baby bird's. 

-

  
  
  


“Akechi?”

Akira's voice floats down to him, from the mouth of a very deep well. 

Or not, apparently. When his eyes fly open there's no well to be seen. Just Akira, swimming into view above him. "Feeling any better?"

For a moment the whole thing seems like a fever dream. But then Akira shifts a little and Akechi can see the bruises running down his arms and wrists, and feels viscerally ill. 

"You," Akechi rasps, and stops, head suddenly bursting with fog. 

"I'm fine," Akira says. "You passed out after bringing me here. How do you feel?"

Akechi finally takes in the surroundings. This isn't his room, nor it's not Akira's weird attic. There are... signs, on the walls. Newspaper clippings. Printouts of... forum posts? Posters of idol girls?

"I brought you to Mishima's room," Akira says apologetically. "He was really worried about you. Plus I wasn't sure you'd enjoy my, uh, crate bed."

"I definitely wouldn't," Akechi says, and Akira grins. No, wait, he can't let him off the hook. "Akira, what were you doing there? What was that _about_?"

"I told you, didn't I?" Akira's eyes are even. They shine almost victoriously. "That I was going to prove the Thieves' innocence."

"By getting yourself killed? You would have _died_ if I hadn't come after you!" 

"But you did," Akira says. He is far too nonchalant. "Chihaya told me you would, actually, in so many words. Did a reading."

"You'd stake your life on a _reading_?"

"That's... actually kind of cool, Akira," Mishima says approvingly. "I had no idea you were so insane."

Akechi barely has time to process Mishima’s presence before Akira says very pointedly, "Mishima, could you get us some painkillers?"

Mishima agrees to it, looking glad for an excuse to be out of his own room. 

The moment they hear the door-handle click, Akira turns to Akechi. He is radiating something Akechi has never felt from him before. 

"I need to know what happened in there." His voice is completely toneless. "I was drugged, but not unconscious. What did you do?"

Akechi stares at him. Shouldn’t he be the one asking Akira that? Why were you there? Who were those men?

But there’s a gaping scarlet hole in his memory.

"Think," Akira says. There’s an impatient edge to it. “You killed those men, Akechi. And you didn't use your chains to do it.”

"I don't... know," says Akechi, slowly. 

It's hard to explain. Red mist spills through his brain when he thinks about it. As he thinks about it more, though, he finds that he’s more and more irritated.

 _Akira_ needs to know what happened? 

"Fuck you," he says, out of nowhere. "You _need_ me to tell you? I don't need to tell you a fucking thing, Akira."

"Oh, shit," Akira says. “It’s happening again — your aura’s spiking again.”

"You lie and lie and lie. You're hiding so much and you're not the least ashamed about it —”

"It's when you're mad,” Akira marvels. “You lose control... and make others lose control, too. That’s a dangerous power —"

“— I cannot fucking stand you — not a single thing about you!”

“Akechi, this isn’t you,” Akira says urgently. “The anger, it’s manipulating you —“

“Go to hell,” Akechi hisses. “The only person manipulating me is _you.”_

“Akechi — “

“Don’t waste your breath. Using me as a pawn in your plan, to save your worthless skin? This is why you got close to me in the first place, wasn’t it, _Akira?_ ”

Something in Akira’s expression changes, almost imperceptibly.

"I think I liked you better on that rooftop," he says blandly.

Akechi’s heart beats once, wildly, in his ribcage.

“You know, sometimes I think about it.” Akira’s going for the throat. “Maruki — should I have undone what he did? You’d probably be happier if I hadn’t. Honestly, I think we’d both be happier.” 

_Crack!_

The first blow doesn't land, nor does the second, but the third does: a solid punch hits Akira squarely in the jaw, and he gasps and rolls away to clutch his balance. This isn't a Nen fight, it's a fistfight.

Or it should be, anyway, but Akira won't fight back, just sidesteps Akechi's flurry of punches. He's stupidly acrobatic. 

Fuck this. Akechi's never been very good at fistfighting. 

He closes his eyes, and a torrent of chains dart from his fingertips and hurl themselves at Akira, clamoring for blood.

It's harder for Akira to dodge them, but not impossible. He manages to avoid these, too, leaping around Mishima's little room like a gymnast in a dollhouse. Phan-Site posters shake dangerously on the walls. "Stop trying to fight me —"

"Stop running away, you piece of shit!" 

Akira’s clever, but so is Akechi. One of his chains finally manages to snag Akira’s left wrist. Akira looks down in annoyance and whistles a short note, freeing his wrist, but in that time multiple chains entrap his legs and torso, and now they hoist him in the air like the limbs of an insect. 

Clean strategy and clean execution. Akechi pulls him closer, triumphant. He loops a few more chains around him for good measure, the better to examine his prize. 

Akira stares awfully defiantly for a metal cocoon. He doesn’t whistle, though, or even purse his lips.

"Not fighting back, even now? Do you have a death wish?"

Akira stares at him coolly. No answer.

"I could kill you, just like this," Akechi murmurs. 

Akira seems to think about it. Then he tips his throat back, as if in challenge.

Akechi's mouth suddenly feels very dry. 

At that moment, the door creaks open to reveal Mishima staring at the pair of them, painkiller jar in hand. 

"Whoa," Mishima says. "I am definitely interrupting something."  
  


-

In the weeks that follow, crime surges. Yorknew's mayoral election is in three weeks, and the running opposition, a city councilman named Shido, is particularly riled up about it. He's always on TV talking about how he's going to reform the city with his bare hands. It sounds worthless to Akechi, but it must sound good to the voters, because he surges correspondingly in the polls. His sunglasses are ugly. Ohya changes the channel whenever he's on.

At the same time, though, a rash of minor criminals turn themselves in. Domestic abusers, prosecutors who forge evidence, bank tellers that steal. The media's lazy about covering it, but one person among them pays way too much attention. "Dude," Mishima whispers excitedly to him in the halls, "that's number thirty-seven this month. Joker must be _mad_ mad."

What the media is not lazy about covering, though, is Kunikazu Okumura's press conference for the following week. It's a high-profile name. Okumura of Okumura Foods, the largest conglomerate in Yorknew, announcing a surprise conference? Is the company shutting down, or developing new brands? Stocks plummet, then soar as speculation heightens. The conference is right before the auction, and in the same building, which is even stranger. The Kaneshiros are especially antsy about it. They start double- and triple-assigning patrols.

Akira gets weird, too. He gets nervous, which is not a natural look on him. He's always busy now, slipping from the mansion at odd hours without warning. Akechi barely sees him. Their trips into Yorknew to decorate the attic together now feel hazy, imagined; their late nights chatting figments of the past.

He’s right to be worried, because twenty minutes before the press conference starts, Okumura fucking dies.

The news reports trickle in. There had been explosions in the Cemetery Building. Debris everywhere. Blunt force trauma: chunk of rock to the back of his skull. The press conference is cancelled, but the auction's proceeding as scheduled: ten billion jenny won't be put on hold. 

The Kaneshiros call quickly, alarmed: Everyone hold their positions. 

Akira's already gone, though. He vanishes the moment the news breaks. Akechi can’t hear heartbeats, but the look on his face says enough. 

  
  


-

  
  


There are many people here. 

The auction is being held in a massive ballroom that can seat what look like thousands. Chandeliers line the hall; everything has gold trim. It's as ritzy and revolting as the items being auctioned off.

“Um, have you seen Akira, Akechi-kun?” Hifumi says. She sounds unsettled. “The auction’s about to start…”

“I’m not his keeper,” Akechi says flintily.

It’s unsettling to him, too. Akira’s Nen is nowhere to be felt. He’s not answering his texts. Overhead the ink-black sky is visible through an unnecessarily large skylight. 

The auction is starting. Everyone to their seats.

Akechi feels strangely nervous. 

Good evening, the auctioneer announces. We’d like to start off with a moment of silence for Mr. Okumura. Initial reports implicate the Phantom Thieves in his untimely death — gasps from the crowd! — but we have no intention of letting this derail the auction, bidding will start sharp at eight-fifteen, so if you would please — 

“Bull-fucking-shit,” a voice crackles over the speakers. “We never killed that guy.”

Something hits the auctioneer square in the forehead. He staggers, astonished, and then — keels over. Stops talking. 

“We Phantom Thieves don’t kill people!” This voice is cheerful, bubbly. “And we’re tired of being framed for it!”

A wave of whispers ripples through the audience: _The Phantom Thieves? Those criminals? I thought we were safe here?_

“We stole all your stuff, though,” cackles another voice. This one is oddly familiar. It reminds him of — playing games on a hot summer’s day, in an attic above a cafe? That’s hyperspecific — 

A masked figure takes the moment to explode through the skylight and land on the event stage. 

People scream. Glass is everywhere. It’s beyond theatrical. 

Akechi knows someone exactly that theatrical.

More than one person, in the vast universe, can be dramatic. The moment the figure strolls over and picks up the mic, though, is the moment all pretense is lost, because that figure is one he’d know anywhere, and he’s looking directly at Akechi, too.

“Okumura was going to confess his crimes tonight,” Akira says. “He was also going to announce the name of the person who’s been framing us for _years_. He got word of it first, though, and killed him — but we’re done being framed. _I’m_ done being framed.”

Akechi keeps staring at Akira. He sees his mouth move, but doesn’t hear the words. Something about the man named Shido, and stealing hearts, and confessing crimes.

It makes too much sense.

 _“Get him,”_ bellows a voice from the crowd, and Akechi turns in time to see a flash of orange sunglasses, eyes buggy and contorted with rage — but Akira’s already making his getaway, flying through the air lightning-fast, buoyed by a slender chain — a _chain —_

That’s his grappling hook, Akechi realizes. 

“Um, Akechi-kun?” Hifumi says. “Are you okay?”

“Dude,” Mishima says. He is beyond excited. “Dude, that was _Joker!”_

“But the way Akechi-kun jumped out of his seat,” Hifumi says, very mildly. “And his Nen, it’s...” Ohya elbows her pointedly.

“Hold on,” Mishima says, fumbling furiously for his phone. “I have to post online.”

The hall is in an uproar. No — a bloodbath. Someone’s opened fire indiscriminately. They want to get Joker, Akechi realizes, by any means necessary.

Well.

He can sympathize with that. 

  
  


-

  
  


Akira is waiting on the rooftop. No — Joker, now. His gloves are the same color as the moon.

“You came.”

Akechi doesn’t say anything. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Akira says. He says it earnestly, with a shade of regret. It’s almost uncanny how good he is at that. “The press conference was supposed to vindicate us. But things don’t always go according to plan.” 

Akechi still doesn’t answer. 

“It’s still all true, you know,” Akira says, “but I know you don’t believe me.” 

“Tell me, _Joker_. Who were you going to introduce me to, after the auction? Was any of that true?”

There's a certain power in saying Joker. It makes Akira uncomfortable. He winces and hops down from the ledge.

"Me, obviously," Akira says. "And my friends. It was all true. I mean, you could even — " Akira swallows. "You could join us, if you wanted to. I think... I think they’d like you."

He doesn't recognize the noise that tears out of him — like a laugh, but more deranged. "Join you? Join the Phantom Thieves? When my only interest is killing you all?"

"I don't want to fight you, Akechi," Akira says, gently but firmly, like he's coaxing an animal. "And I won't."

"Shut up," Akechi says. "Shut up — _shut_ —" 

A hissing, writhing mass of chains leaps for Joker. But he's agile — he's Akira, of course he is — and he dodges with preternatural ease, cartwheeling around the rooftop like a gymnast. 

Akechi concentrates. Splits up the chains, feints, diverts. There — an opening straight for his heart, a chain that won't miss, a blow that will land — but at the last moment it glances off another chain, one attached to Akira's hand —

The cloth, the flute, the grappling hook — 

“You piece of shit,” Akechi hisses. “You steal Nen? You stole my _ability?”_

“I wouldn’t say _steal,_ ” Akira says. “Copy, maybe.” Akechi flings another chain; Akira dodges. “You were always so suspicious of my flute. No one’s ever caught on so quickly." 

He sounds genuinely admiring. Akechi’s heart is going to claw through his ribcage. 

But there is one thing he can do that Akira cannot. 

Akechi’s rage is uniquely his own. And it fills him now, fills every cell in his body with blistering fury. 

He’s going to kill Akira. He’s going to rend him limb from limb. He’s going to watch him bleed out on the pavement and _revel_ in it. He’s going to kill the pathetic part of himself that still wants to believe Akira, that remembers the sweetness of his mouth — and what’s wrong with him? Why is he looking at Akechi like that?

"I'm going to kill you," Akechi says out loud, and takes a step forward.

He doesn't want to see that expression —

The chains curl around him, clamoring for blood.

— or to dwell on it —

His steps echo with finality.

— how he looks almost tender —

Akira makes no move to stop him as he advances across the rooftop, every footstep a declaration of intent. He doesn't move even as Akechi stops feet away from him. And he won't make the first move, even now, so supremely confident is he in his abilities. 

It's comforting that Akira will never have _this_ power, because with it he could never be stopped. If he felt it, too, this blend of rage and sorrow and ferocious desire — what would he be capable of? 

The crimson moon hangs above them. Akechi stares up at it, unblinking, and recognizes its nature reflected in himself. Then he stares back at the boy across from him, and feels every emotion convulse. 

"You're beautiful," Akira says, and Akechi lunges.

**Author's Note:**

> \- thanks for reading!! sorry if this was completely insane lmao i forget how this happened… i think the akechi-kurapika vengeance-chains parallel and the joker-chrollo wildcard persona-registering/ability-stealing parallel sold it for me... (i didn’t make this super clear in the fic but i hced akechi’s specialist ability, turning people/himself psychotic, to be sort of the opposite of a chain-based ability -- unchaining shit -- fun parallel in itself!)
> 
> \- title is from the fortune neon reads for chrollo in hxh originally!
> 
> \- fic gets 5% better if you listen to [do you want to fight me - venus hum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6HdxO8u-6-o) while reading
> 
> \- there’s a bunch of Lore that didn’t make it into the fic... maybe it will make it into the imaginary pwp epilogue who knows
> 
> \- shoutout to jelena for listening to bad headcanons, mz for helping w a scene without having played p5 or seen hxh? queen... and left for being themselves <3 and also drawing the worlds cutest [goropika](https://i.gyazo.com/e2be96e57b3e42ee0f0d00cd7244defc.png)!!!! i’m crying SORRY HE NEVER WEARS KURTA GEAR IN THIS FIC in spirit. he’s in that shit
> 
> i'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/letrasette) / if you liked this you can rt it [here](https://twitter.com/letrasette/status/1289388774053441536) !


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